


I'm sorry I see myself in you

by Minkey222



Series: Peter Parker is young, dumb and reckless (and also in constant pain) [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No Smut, Only gets worse from here, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter really isn't okay, Suicidal Thoughts, This is getting so sad, one use of the f-slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkey222/pseuds/Minkey222
Summary: Logically, in Peter’s mind, he knows that the likelihood of being stuck in yet another repeat situation was quite high- lord knows that Peter knows that there is a never-ending supply of asshats who decided that they could have whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it and lorded their self-proclaimed titles over the heads of the innocent bystanders by which they taint with their grubby little fingers.





	I'm sorry I see myself in you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry you guys, this gets sad (it only gets worse from here (the next part will kill you (so sorry))). I wrote most of this immediately after I wrote 'Just a kid' so I'm sorry if the writing style's a bit different but hopefully it's alright :).
> 
> Please comment, if you do maybe I'll go a little easy on you with the next one (no promises)
> 
> Enjoy <3

Logically, in Peter’s mind, he knows that the likelihood of being stuck in yet another repeat situation was quite high- lord knows that Peter knows that there is a never-ending supply of asshats who decided that they could have whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it and lorded their self proclaimed titles over the heads of the innocent bystanders by which they taint with their grubby little fingers. These little asshats were pests and whenever one was struck down three more would grow in its place (much like the ancient Hydra and isn’t that a striking image?). So yes, logically Peter knew that he would most likely end up in the same position yet again (though in his heart of hearts he didn’t want to believe it).

 

So in this instance, Peter wanted to be selfish- turn a blind eye and turn tail and  _ run _ from the soft cries coming from the crack in the window below him and he  _ would _ have left it well alone- someone could be crying for a many number of things (lord knows Peter finds himself crying most days at this hour of the evening (though Peter often denies this fact about himself)) and the tears didn’t necessarily mean violence but his nose told him otherwise and the whiffs he kept catching as he stood outside of the window of blood, sweat and other… things (Peter did not want to think about that at all) drew him in even closer. 

 

The thing is, though, that the Trace was long enough ago that the underlying unease had settled away to another, empty and unused part of his “Spider-man” brain (it’s still too raw in his “Peter Parker” brain (Jake’s face. His hands (Skip’s floating behind the surface))), so the sudden jolt that hits him all too quickly; intense and raw and sticks him to the fire exit outside the open window and his breathing is a little too fast and a little too shallow. Peter wants to leave,  _ needs _ to leave. Maybe it is too late now, perhaps he is of no use now, maybe- Maybe he needs to stop psyching himself out and check in the window a little more. 

 

He lets out a soft exhale and moves in closer to the window. Peering in he chuckles softly at the spider-man posters on the walls, the red and blue decor and the crudely drawn photos in his likeness. It’s cute, Peter thinks, though the sniffles and sobs of the clearly young child really offsets the mood. Shaking his head, the sudden horror hits him. A small child. Judging by the drawings and toys and decorations this kid can’t be old at all (it makes Peter wonder what could have happened to make this kid sob like he is and Peter doesn’t want to think about that one bit (and where are his parents? Too many questions and not enough answers- or too telling of the situation (shut up, shut up, shut up-))). You see, Peter would usually leave the kids to the adults (Peter’s only a kid (too young, too young)) and there are a manner of reasons why a kid would be crying, if it’s loud, if it’s noisy it’s maybe not so worrying but everyone, and Peter means everyone, knows a kid crying silently is a kid to be worried about-

 

_ Peter can’t stop crying no matter how hard he tries. He hits his head against the wall again and again but he still won't stop crying but he has to be quiet. Can’t wake Ben. Can’t wake May. Can’t do anything. Nothing will change. He’ll be this way forever and ever and he’ll never stop crying- _

 

He pries the window open an inch more and when there is no more or less crying he opens it another inch and another until the window has a gap large enough for him to fit through. He crawls along the ceiling, the room is softly lit by a nightlight on one of the walls but the room looks colder through the instance. There’s a bed in one corner and on top of the bed is a boy, he can’t be older than 5 or 6 years old (he’s tiny and god that hurts because  _ he _ was tiny and small and-), the head that is tucked between tiny knees is covered in curly red hair that twitches and dances with every shiver. The boy must be cold, he’s dressed in nothing but underwear. From here Peter can count every vertebrae and every rib and- Peter wants to be sick. This kid, this  _ child _ is covered in bruises, hand shaped bruises that paint his torso, arms and legs in purples and red and blues and yellows- it reminded Peter oddly of a watercolour painting he once saw in an art museum he visited on a school trip. They’re not natural colours, they wash the child out and make his skin seem even paler by comparison. 

 

The boy hasn’t noticed him yet it seems so he creeps closer and closer until he’s at the foot of the short bed. Peter crouches closer to the boy, he drops down to his level and whispers,

“Hey,” The boy seems to react badly to that and begins to shiver harder, pressing his knees closer against his head. Peter’s panicking inwardly now, he has no clue what to do, this kid is clearly terrified. Peter looks around the room.   
“Hey,” He tries again, the boy does not react, “It’s uh- it’s me, Spider-man,” This gets the boy’s attention, his shivers subside a touch and a small voice asks lightly,

“Spidey?” It’s a soft sound and so Peter equally as softly replies

“Yeah, bud, it’s me, Spidey,” as to not break the silence of the room. He boy takes a second to adjust and to calm down and these few moments seem to take hours but eventually the boy uncurls from himself a small amount and moves his head to look Peter in the face or rather mask. 

 

The boy’s eyes are large and round, warm hazel and sort-of empty, sort-of broken but also filling up with hope and God that punches Peter right in the stomach (looking into a mirror is painful, looking into those eyes is painful). His cheeks are flushed and his eyes puffy from crying, his lip is bleeding from where he’d bitten through the skin. Tears drip off his eyelashes, clear like crystal. He’s swallowed up by the bed and bed covers and the overwhelming colour scheme of red and blue (Peter thinks to himself, is this what he was like when he was young and obsessed with iron man?(was he really this tiny? (was he really this broken?))) and this small boy is sat in the centre of this and sticks out like a sore thumb and is also lost behind the colours. The boy stares at him, his arms are thin and stick-like, his legs equally so. There’s a bruise on his cheek.  He ponders him for a second and then he pounces onto Peter, wrapping his arms behind his neck with a strength that Peter wonders where it came from. This boy is hung from Peter’s neck and shakes with a newfound ferocity. In this new closeness Peter smells the faint perfume of liquor floating on the boys skin. Peter can’t stop thinking, so he just wraps his arms close around the boy’s exposed back (he pretends that he’s not counting every bump of his spine under his arm).

 

“What happened?” He asks softly because he knows there’s nothing else he can say.

“My- my Da, he- he- he came home and-,” the boy pauses every so often to take a breath between his sobs as kids do when they’re crying as hard as this boy is. It breaks his heart.

 

“Did he- Did he  _ do _ something to you? Did he  _ hurt  _ you?” Peter doesn’t want to ask but he knows, he just knows that he has to- he knows that if he doesn’t no one will. The boy nods jerkily into his shoulder (Peter’s heart breaks just a little bit more). Peter can’t leave him here, he can’t.

“Where’s your dad now? Is he- is your dad still here?” The boy nods again into his shoulder and Peter’s body tenses ever so slightly. Peter tries to not let him feel it (he probably failed (he always does))

“Yeah, my Da- I think he’s asleep, but- but-” He breaks off into another round of sobs, pressing his face closer into Peter’s shoulder. Peter just holds him even tighter. The warmth of the small body against his own- it makes Peter want to cry as well. He doesn’t though. He also doesn’t know what to do next. But one thing he knows as truth is that he has to get this kid away from here.

 

Tapping the child’s shoulder lightly, he asks,

“You have any other family? Someone who could look after you?” Peter hates the way his voice cracks as he talks. The boy nods again and mumbles “My nan” into his shoulder, his head heavy with weariness.

Peter just nods even though he knows he can’t see him.

“Do you know where she lives?” Peter asks as he looks around to see if there are any clothes that he could dress the boy in (he still shivers every now and again as the October air filters in from the open window). The boy nods again and says,

“She lives a couple blocks away, me Ma use to walk me there on Sundays,” The boy shivers again, Peter wraps himself tighter around him trying to shield him from the cold.

“Can I take you there?” His voice sounds weird to his ears, the boy nods softly. Peter can feel the dampness on his shoulder and the tickle of his eyelashes on his neck.

 

Peter moves slightly to try and put the boy down  (he does so reluctantly) but the boy just clings on even tighter, 

“Bud, you have to put some clothes on before we can leave. It’s cold,” He expected some kind of resistance but the boy just hopped off of him without a word. Peter stood too. The kid just stands there- it’s a little unnerving, his head bowed, his hands crossed over his front, his fingers fumbling over one another. He makes no motion to move. Peter opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong when he notices the little crease between his eyebrows and the little smudge of blood on his leg (Peter feels sick) and so instead he moves to pick him up. The boy realises what Peter plans on doing and simply raises his arms to help. Peter picks him up easily (far too easily, this kid weighs absolutely nothing) and starts to look for some clothing, a coat, shoes anything that will protect him from the elements. He treads softly, lest he wake the father up.

 

“What’s your name, bud?” Peter questions whilst rummaging around in a small cupboard in the wall. 

“Travis,” The little boy murmurs.

“Well, Travis, let’s get you dressed, huh,” Travis simply makes a noise of agreement and settles his head deeper onto Peter’s shoulder.

 

After looking around in another cupboard for another minute or two, Peter finally finds a t-shirt, trousers, shoes and a coat for Travis and places him lightly on the edge of the bed. Peter’s breath gets caught in his throat ever so slightly and he blinks away a couple tears that comes to the corner of his eyes as he looks at Travis, broken, battered and abused as he is, as he sees the way that his head lulls down with sleepiness. Travis is malleable as Peter wrestles him into his clothes as gently as he can, his arms flop by his side and his head sways from side to side. It’s late in the night, far too late for a child as young as Travis is to be awake (Peter’s just glad that it’s a weekend).

 

Travis is fully dressed when Peter goes to pick him up again, jostling him ever so slightly but it is enough to wake him.

“Huh?” Travis blinks blearily.

“I’m taking you to your Nan’s house,” Peter explains,

“I need teddy,” The boy mumbles and Peter nods, (of course he needs his teddy, what were you thinking, Parker?), propping him on his hip, Peter scans the room for any sign of the aforementioned Teddy. Despite the room being adorned in all manners of Spider-man decoration the room is surprisingly empty, the contents comprised of a bed, a small table, a chair and a mirror. There are no toys on the bed or under the bed or on the floor. Nothing- it was suspicious. He circled round the room a couple more times until he saw it. There, above the door was a small shelf and on this shelf was a single teddy bear (jackpot!) propped up next to some colourful children’s books and a couple snow globes. He approached the small shelf but was then faced with one more problem, how to reach this teddy, extract it from behind the snowglobes without knocking them down whilst still holding Travis in his grip (Peter had grown attached to this boy and was reluctant to let him go (though Peter wouldn’t admit it to anyone)). 

 

Well, Peter decided after pondering for a second, if anyone is gonna get this down tactfully without causing a commotion it was going to be him, ‘cause he was Spider-man and he was the epitome of grace (thank you very much). So, without jostling Travis, Peter subtly webbed the Teddy bear and yanked it towards him, grabbing it in his hand without a noise. Peter considered this a success and turned back towards the window, Travis still asleep in the crook of his neck, when all of a sudden his spider sense flared to life with a sudden ferocity. Turning around, almost comically slow, he saw as shelf above the door tilted forwards, having slipped off a broken support that had been irritated by the sliding of the bear. Peter felt he couldn’t move as he watched the shelf crash to the floor, the noise of the snow globes shattering on the hardwood floor, the noise of hardback books thudding. Peter couldn’t do anything, both of his hands full, Travis suddenly awake and alert in his grip; Peter only tightened his hold around Travis’s soft, fragile body. 

 

Slinking back closer towards the window, hushing Travis breathlessly, Peter’s senses were going haywire, the thuds of booted feet were too loud- far too loud and the screech of the door handle turning into the room set a fire in his head. The dad, that evil monster was coming in and it was all Peter could do not to do something stupid like jump onto the ceiling.

 

The door hitting the wall was nothing to Peter when he finally came face to face with the man. 6 Foot tall, Double Peter’s weight, if not more and rippling muscles; the looks of which weren’t even dampened by the dried string of drool on his chin. This man was a monster, an abusive, evil monster (and Peter was terrified, but he wouldn’t say). Travis was awake in his arm and looking around quizzingly, eyes darting around from left to right in weary confusion.

 

“What the fuck is going on in here, you little bitch?” the voice was booming and gravelly from sleep, seeming to shake even the windows in their frames. His eyes were piercing but slow and seemed to take a minute to even recognise his presence (Peter was secretly pleading with whatever gods were out there that he would be lost in the sea of red and blue and he wouldn’t be spotted) unfortunately he could pinpoint the second he realised his fate. His snakeline eyes paused and squinted like a predator spotting its prey (Peter felt like a deer in headlights (he only held on tighter to Travis)). The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up and a ripple shot down his back. Travis, now aware in his arms, tightened his grip in return and the violent shivers returned despite the fact he was now wearing clothes (don’t think about it, don’t think about it…).

 

“What do you think you’re doing with my son you fag?”. Peter didn’t know why it hurt, he just knows that it did (his mind tries to come up with the meaning (he doesn’t like the truth any better)). The dad reaches towards him and swings drunkenly, trying to grab Travis out of his grip but he’s faster (and sober) so he quickly angles his body away from him, keeping Travis out of reach, taking another subtle step backwards, towards the window. The dad doesn’t seem to like that though and tries again but fails just the same, Peter edging closer to the window every second. The dad is getting angrier and angrier, his cheeks flushing a violent shade of purple,

  
“He’s my son,” He grits out as he tries to yank him from Peter’s grip once more but Peter just continues to dodge and weave and evade, getting closer and closer yet to the window (an escape (please, just please let him)) and a fire burns in him. Deep down past the pain and the hurt and the broken part (past Flash. Past Jake. Past Ben. Past Skip), right down to his very core his entire being is filled with one thought, one meaning, one mission;

 

Keep this kid safe.

 

(so he doesn’t end up just like you (broken and worthless and-)).

 

“You don’t deserve him” Peter snarls and bites and keeps his grip on the trembling boy tight and he holds back with tiny hands equally hard. Peter feels like an attack dog coiled to protect his master.

 

“Why not?” The monster has the gall to sound amused underneath the anger. A joke that glitters in his eyes. Peter can smell the liquor, the sweat, blood- something else on his skin. He only feels more angry for this little boy’s sake.

 

“You hurt him. People like you don’t get to have kids. You make me sick” He really, really does make him sick. The fury in the dad’s eyes burns even brighter and his movements become just swift enough that he actually manages to grab Peter’s arm. His hold on his burns, his skin is acid on his, the evil pouring off of this man disgusts him.

 

“I did nothing of the sort. Little bitch deserved it for looking too much like his mother. It’s his fault that she slipped off like the little whore that she was. He’s just making it up to me.” He turns to look at Travis and addresses him directly, “Weren’t you, my boy?” and with that Peter loses control. His body becomes one with the fury that’s coursing through his veins and without thinking Peter slams his fist into his ugly face. Hard. His head snaps back and he falls to the floor. Limp and cold. If Peter had any less sense he would have spat on him (plus he’s wearing the mask and well that would be a bit rough to be honest). Angling his body so that Travis doesn’t see his unconscious father, he finally slips out the window, Teddy and all.

 

After that Travis just points him in the direction of his Nan’s house. The journey is uneventful, quiet and a bit cold but Travis just holds on tight and tries to ignore that he can’t seem to stop crying (Peter’s trying to ignore that fact he can’t either). Peter hands him off to his nan, who cries when she sees the state of her grandson. Peter explains the situation to her and she nods in understanding and then he waves goodbye and the door shuts behind him. He watches from the shadows as all the lights switch off in the apartment and he turns tail and leaves. 

 

Peter swings for what feels like hours. Maybe minutes, seconds, days. His head can’t work out what happened, what’s going on. He flexes his hand, he feels the joints protest from where he punched him, where the knuckles are swelling up and bruising.

 

He should be used to this. Beating up the bad guys. Saving the innocent but it never gets any easier. He shouldn’t feel bad about taking a kid away from an abusive parent but he knows what it’s like to live without parents. That monster was Travis’ dad, a shitty one but still his dad. From what it sounded like, Travis’ doesn’t have a mom either, not anymore. Shaking his head he sits on the edge of the roof he’s on, pulling the mask off, the wind ruffle his hair. He huffs a sigh.

 

He sits there forever how long, just watching life continue down below him. He thinks about his own life, about how fucked up it can be sometimes, how great it can be sometimes (how much he sometimes want to jump from somewhere like this (nice and high. No suit (he can’t let May down again))). He watches as the moon moves across the vast and endless sky, as the stars twinkle in and out of existence, as the headlights of cars shoot across the roads. He wanders how many people have died since he sat down, how many died surrounded by family, how many died alone, how many wanted to die, how many didn’t want to go. He wanders how many people were born, into families that want them, that don’t want them. How many of them are gonna end up a mess like him. How many of those innocent kids are gonna get hurt like he was. Peter feels so tiny at times like this. He’s Spider-man, he’s supposed to help, to protect but how many of those people in that bright and bustling city down, so far down below him are gonna get hurt and he’s not gonna be there for them? How many people is he gonna let down? How many people have died because he wasn’t there? Sometimes the thought drives him mad. But sometimes, in times like now his mind just comes up short. Not finding any answers. He’s just quiet.

 

He breathes in. He breathes out.

 

His phone rings. He composes himself and pulls it out of the secret pocket he had Mr. Stark install in the suit. Pressing answer he puts the phone to his ear.

 

“It’s well past curfew,” Mr Stark’s voice is grainy and foggy on the other end (or maybe it’s just him) Peter just hums and bops his head.

 

“Yeah,” He hates how empty he sounds (he just says that it’s been a long day, that he’s tired (he’s lying again)) “Sorry, I just- I just got carried away sorting something out, I’m heading home now. Sorry about worrying you,” Mr Stark doesn’t respond for a second but doesn’t hang up yet.

 

“Peter, you know you can talk to me.” it’s a statement, Peter just hums again, too tired to open his mouth. “It’s just- I know you don’t like it when I do but you’ve been up on that roof for a while and-” Peter cuts him off,

 

“I’m fine, Mr Stark, I’m heading home, I just stopped to rest a minute. It’s been a long day.” Peter doesn’t even convince himself and Mr Stark sounds skeptical but just says,

 

“Alright then, just, make sure you go straight home now. Don’t want May to throw down now,” and he hangs up.

 

He breathes in. He breathes out.

 

Taking one last sweeping look across the landscape, Peter stands on the ledge. Feels the weight of the sky on his shoulders. Pulls his mask on and swings home.

 

He falls straight asleep.

 

(no, he doesn’t but that’s not his problem).


End file.
